


A Study in Golden (The Adventure of the Broken Men)

by Madster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Living Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madster/pseuds/Madster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I decided I should write my own take on their meeting and first case, as well as the few after that...this is BBC Sherlock style set in the Arthur Conan Doyle days.<br/>And it's all thanks to Stamford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic here, guys, please go easy on me. Comments welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading!

April 10, 1888  
Highgate Cemetery, London

The wind whistled coldly through the trees and into the grass, weaving snake-like patterns over the surface about his shoes.  
He, a boy of slightly less than average height and of a stronger, muscular build, stood before the two blank grey stones implanted in the earth at his feet. Inadequate, he thought bitterly. They deserved so much better.   
Despite the fact there was little he could do about his situation, or perhaps because of this, he squatted down and ran his hands over his eyes again and again, like he was trying to make the whole image go away. As if he could wipe the sight of his parent’s grave from his mind and life. If this hadn’t happened, he couldn’t help but wonder, If this this hadn’t happened, where would I be? Would I still have a chance at anything? Marriage? Or would the army have seen me dead yet?  
He growled under his breath. No, no sense in this. None at all. If his parents were dead, they were dead, and he was going to have to make do.  
He was going to have to make do.

 

February 19, 1890  
The Embankment, London

“John? John Watson?”  
John blinked, turning towards the sound of his name.  
He found himself staring back through the crowds of London’s streets as a large, pale man pushed past the hordes of people to give him a light-eyed smile. “Goodness, it really is you!”  
John blinked as the man wrapped his hand in a shake. “Mike…” he began, unsure, “Mike Stamford.”  
“How’ve you been, John?” Mike asked with enthusiasm.  
“All right.”  
“Good, John, I heard you came back from the military, whatever happened?”  
John shrugged. “I was offered a leave, until something arose. I took it.”  
Mike gave him a smile. “Well, glad we’ve met again, chap! Can you spare a moment for a cuppa? Come on, now, for old time’s sake?”  
John paused, only half of him really wanting to go, but at last he relented, thinking how much his damn leg was bothering him. “I suppose, yes, thank you.”

Fifteen minutes later saw John plunked down in a squishy armchair in the home of Mike Stamford.  
“Oh, thank you kindly,” he said as a maid handed him a cup of tea.  
She nodded, her eyes turned down a bit as a tiny flattered smile crept over her cheeks.  
John gave a smile back. He may not have been the tallest, or the best looking of men, but something about his soft burnt blond hair over those rain blue eyes, paired with the kind, strong demeanor, seemed to draw people to him. It was part of the reason he made such a damn good doctor.  
“So, John,” Mike interrupted his moment with the maid, sending her scampering off. “Where are you living these days?”  
“I have a place, on the outskirts,” John answered, not wanting to give out too much information on himself. “I see you, though, have made it quite far.”  
Mike chuckled. “Marriage and a firm career can grant one’s wishes, I will say that.”   
John laughed a little alongside him. “What kind of career, though? You are only a few years ahead of me, what have you been doing?”  
Smiling at John’s light teasing, Mike said, “I am already into my twenties, John, and am dappling in surgery, here in the city, instead of your foreign affairs.”  
“Foreign affairs?” John laughed. “I’ve hardly left the country as of yet!”  
“That’s more than can be said for myself,” Mike replied. “Where are you intending to go with all of this army hubbub?”  
“’Hubbub’?”  
“Oh, I don’t know.”  
John laughed. “I don’t know… adventure, I suppose.”  
“Could just go on holiday.”  
“’S only temporary, though.”  
“I see…” Mike looked deep in thought for a moment before going on, “You’re not really just on leave, are you, John?”  
The doctor shifted, pursing his lips. “No, no I’m not.”  
“What happened?”  
John flicked his fingers around a moment before he tapped his leg. “Injury. I can’t do much more than take a short stroll before I require a cane.”  
“Goodness, John, and you’re living on the outskirts of the city?”  
“I am, yeah.”  
“Dear John, you’re unmarried, alone, and on a… leave, with a bad leg, along with being far out of reach!”  
“Well, yes… I suppose a better flat could be in order, but I can’t afford London.”  
Here, though, Stamford stopped, looking deep in thought. “Come to think of it, John, you’re not the only person I’ve heard that from.”  
“No?”  
“No, an acquaintance of mine was mentioning looking for a flat mate as well. Said he had a place he was looking at, but wanted someone to go half with.”  
John mulled the thought over slowly. “Yeah?”  
“Mm. Quite the fellow, he is, you’d have to meet him yourself to understand, but he’s…” Mike looked up with an amused glint in his eye. “Eccentric, to say the least.”  
John blinked. To say the least? Part of him told him, back off, this can only lead to more trouble! But the other half, the one that had carried him to the army, said, sure sounds like a good adventure, doesn’t it?  
“Would you like to?”  
John stirred out of his thoughts. “Hm? What?”  
“Meet him.”  
“Well…” John began. DID he want to meet this man? He wasn’t sure what to make of him, from Mike’s description… but God, it did sound like an interesting affair. Perhaps he’d even have a bit of fun until his army days came back around.  
“Sure, yes. Definitely.” He said. “I’d like to. Yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London

“Here we are, John.”  
Mike lead the way into the foreboding hospital where they had trained together in medicine a few years back; back before John’s parent’s had passed and he threw himself head-first into the army, and Mike had married to a woman named Katherine.  
They followed the familiar path, but took a strange turn that John had never been down before, that lead them, instead of to the heart of the hospital, down into its belly; down darker, different hallways. The morgue, John realized. Why would Mike Stamford know someone who worked in the morgue?  
He turned, as if to ask, but just then they reached the door they were looking for, and with a smile, Mike marched in.  
“Mr. Holmes? I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, John Watson.”  
John stepped in just as Mike finished, to see the person his friend was addressing.  
He was tall and lean perhaps a year younger than John, dressed in a sharp, fitted suit and draped in a long frocked coat. He glanced up from the experiment his long pale fingers executed, feigning interest, his dark mess of curls flopping over a pale face and a pair of spectacular green-sliver eyes. After a quick, but lazy glance over John, he looked back down.  
“Afghanistan or India?” Mr. Holmes asked in a deep, smooth baritone voice.  
John blinked, glancing at Mike. The other man just gave him a mischievous smile, so he went on, “Sorry, what?”  
Mr. Holmes sighed, as if not liking to repeat himself. “I asked; Afghanistan or India, doctor, which did you serve in?”  
“Ehm… Afghanistan. I went for further training and assisting in the control efforts. How… how could you possibly have known that? And I don’t remember saying I was a doctor.”  
“You didn’t, I didn’t know, I deduced.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“I deduced it,” the dark haired man replied, looking unimpressed at having to repeat again, but he finally looked up at John. “You’re clearly a soldier; good posture, firm set of your head, and shoulders, only army men stand like that. Your hair is very short, too, a custom. You’re quite physically fit, also suggesting army, but you haven’t the shoulder muscles for a foot soldier, or anyone carrying a rifle. But, you’ve a steady hand, good with a pistol, and a needle. You seem very at ease in a hospital, this hospital, to be precise, because you were trained here, along with Stamford, as there’s nowhere else you two could have met. So, conclusion; you’re a doctor, but not a surgeon, at least, not originally, you’re too good with people for that, and too high in the army to only be a surgeon. So, a physician. Also, you’ve just come back from Afghanistan, because of a leg wound. Not a bullet… No, you were hit in an attempted revolt. So… you’re looking for a flat mate, are you?”  
John head was swimming, and it took him a second to realize the man had asked a question after all that. “Um. Yeah. Yes. Mike said you were looking for one.”  
“I am.” He said, and got to his feet, sweeping away his experiment’s mess before dodging around John and Mike for the door. “The address is 221B Baker Street. Meet me there in the morning.”  
“Hang on, hold on, just a moment, now,” John interrupted, stopping him. “We don’t know anything about each other; I don’t even know your name!”  
“Don’t we? I know you’re a slightly wounded soldier on leave, a bachelor, living in the slums on the outskirts of town, unemployed, and generally displeased with your life.” Mr. Holmes replied, flat-faced. “And the name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”  
And without waiting for John to reply, he swept off with a flap of his long dark coat.

Baker Street, London

“You came.” Sherlock stated. He did look genuinely surprised.  
“’Course I came. I did agree,” John replied, giving the slightest of smiles.  
Sherlock remained straight-faced, but after a few blinks, John was sure he’d seen the ghost of a smile on the cold, pale man’s face.  
“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the door.  
John gave a vague wave in return, so Sherlock knocked.  
The door swung open moments later, revealing a thin, frail older woman with a proper violet dress and soft, motherly brown eyes.  
Sherlock’s face momentarily flickered to a grin, but it sub-sided nearly instantly. “Mrs. Hudson, hello.”  
“Sherlock, dear!” she cried, giving a bright smile that lit up her eyes. “So good to see you, love.”  
“Mrs. Hudson is an old friend,” Sherlock explained to John. “I solved a case of hers a few years back.”  
“Hello there,” she greeted John with a handshake; shockingly firm for what her appearance suggested. “You must be Dr. Watson; Sherlock’s told me all about you.”  
“Has he, then?” John asked, an edge of agitation creeping into his tone as he gave Sherlock a hard look. He’d known the man for ten bloody minutes yesterday, and the eccentric could already write a biography on him!  
“Trivial things, only, Watson,” Sherlock answered with a dismissive look. “The flat, Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Oh, right, of course,” she answered, and beckoned them both in.  
Removing their jackets to show off Sherlock’s trim suit and John’s less-than-posh button-down, they trailed after the landlady up the steps, which, John did not yet know, was exactly seventeen steps. Only Sherlock knew that, for now, although he did wonder whether John had noticed. It was odd, but some part of him wanted to see just how far the doctor’s mediocre little brain would go.  
“Here you are, boys, I’ll let you have a look about.” Mrs. Hudson said.  
They nodded, and she left.  
John glanced around, nodding slightly to himself. Good. It was nice, with the sitting room laid out before him, a hearth to his right with a taller, velvety armchair and a smaller leather one facing in on each other, ever-so-slightly turned towards the fireplace. A staircase shot up to his right as well, against the back wall, his room, no doubt. To his left, the sitting room had a dining room table, and then morphed into a small kitchen whose table and counters were covered in odd experiments like the one Sherlock had been doing at Bart’s. From there, a small hallway lead into darkness that was most likely the downstairs bedroom, Sherlock’s, and the lavatory.  
There was, however, one unnerving thing about the flat. All over the desk in the sitting room, the coffee table between the chairs, and on the sofa which sat before the bookcases that lined that wall, there were books. And paper. And scraps. And mugs. And odds and ends that made John furrow his eyebrows.  
Sherlock noticed this react, of course, he noticed everything, as John was learning, and said, “I haven’t quite finished... organizing. Not that I am one for it, but… does it suit you?”  
“Yeah, uh, yes, it does.”  
“Good. I expect to split the rent?”  
“Yes. Good. Very good.”  
“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, before abruptly adding, “I play the violin. When I’m bored that is, and it helps me think.”  
“Oh.”  
“…that’s fine?”  
“Well, I can’t very well, stop you, now, can I?” John answered with raised brows.   
“No,” Sherlock admitted. “Your things then, seeing as you will be moving in?”  
“Right, yes, everything’s packed, I just have to-,”  
“SHERLOCK!” Footsteps pounded up to 221B, and a man, taller than John, was not as towering as Sherlock, came in, moisture collecting in his dark hair.  
“Anderson,” Sherlock replied coldly. “What are you doing here?”  
The man, inevitably Anderson, sneered before telling him, “The Inspector sent me. Said you had to come as soon as possible.”  
“On my way. Get out.” Sherlock said flatly, and promptly shut the door in Anderson’s snide face.  
“’The Inspector’? As in, the police Inspector?” John asked after watching Sherlock gather a few things, like his magnifying glass.  
“Yes, Inspector Lestrade.”  
“Hold on, you work for the police?”  
“No. Yes. No…” Sherlock glanced up at John, exasperated. “I’m a consulting detective.”  
“…a what?”  
“Consulting detective. When the police have a crime, or a murder they can’t solve, they come and see me about it.”  
“… is there such a thing?”  
“There is, and I’m the only one in the world,” Sherlock answered haughty.   
“How do you figure you’re a consulting detective then?”  
“I made it up.”  
John kind of stopped here, and in that split second, Sherlock was gone out the door, obviously heading out to solve the police’s cases.  
So, John, finally tired of standing on his bad leg, and not feeling like going to get his things, sat down in the leather armchair so he could look out the two tall windows on the outside wall.  
“Can I get you a cuppa?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.  
“Oh, um, yeah, that’d be lovely,” he muttered, and she gave a smile and nod.  
He sighed. Great, two minutes in this damn place and he’d already been told his life story by a seeming stranger who, in truth, had only amazing him totally, but beyond that, he’d been pitied, abandoned, and his damn leg was damn sore from the cold February air.  
“You’re a doctor.” Sherlock’s dark voice shocked him out of his thoughts.  
He turned around to see the man standing like a cold marble statue in the doorway.  
“Yes.” John answered.  
“Are you good?”  
“Yes. Very. Very good.”  
“And you enjoy it; the military life, the harsh wounds, the pressure of someone’s life in your hands.”  
“…I do. Yes.”  
“…I’m going to solve a murder.”  
“I know, yes.”  
“It’ll likely be gruesome.”  
“Likely, I’d say.”   
“…care to join me?”  
“You’ve no idea how much I wanted you to say that.” John replied quickly, and in a flash, he waved off Mrs. Hudson’s cup of tea with a ‘Later, thank you,” and headed for the door.  
“You boys be careful!” she called after them.  
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, a glint of that incredible intelligence making his eyes dance in an eerie, yet completely thrilling manner. “The game is on!”


	3. Chapter 3

John had always thought he knew the streets of London like that back of his hand even in his years off in the army. His friends had always let him lead them around when they visited the city as children, and he’d never, ever questioned that someone could know them better than someone like him.  
And then he met Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock knew everything there was to know about the city, and about most things for that matter. As they charged around through alleys John didn’t know, and passed through staircases he didn’t know existed, the detective said nothing, but John could feel the cogs in his massive brain turning over and over, and could almost feel his deductions leaking out into the air.  
“Holmes, where are we going?” John asked after a while, slightly out of breath from Sherlock’s brisk pace.  
“Not relevant. Come along, Watson, we’ve got a case to solve!” And he picked up his pace to a jog.  
John winced as his leg protested; wishing he’d brought the cane with them. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to not pick up speed and run just behind Sherlock. Strangely enough, the detective seemed pleased at the proximity, and John didn’t mind either.  
They rounded a final corner, and for the first time, John really had to wonder just how in the bloody hell Sherlock had known where to go without the weasel-face Anderson telling him.  
“A stain,” Sherlock said quietly to John, as if reading his thoughts.  
“What?”  
“You were wondering how I knew to come to this spot; Anderson had a brick stain on his right hand from leaning against that wall,” he gestured to the brick building on the alley’s left side. “It’s the only building far but close enough to make sense for him to be sweating from running, that’s made from this type of brick.”  
John stared at him. “Amazing.”  
Sherlock blinked. “Really.”  
“Absolutely, bloody brilliant.”  
Sherlock looked at him a moment more, before suddenly turning to the task at hand. He waltzed over to man, considerably older, but a bit shorter, with graying hair and a hard look from years of seeing dead bodies in his dark eyes.  
But the look he gave Sherlock nearly cracked John up, it was so outrageously bewildered. “Anderson isn’t even back yet, how did you…” but he stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind, I don’t really care.”  
“So…” Sherlock began; glancing over the body slumped against the bricks. “Man, late thirties, stabbed to death with a six inch blade six times, all on the abdomen, and left to bleed out.”  
“His name is, or was, I should say, Andrew Wilder,” the man added. “A patrol found him dead of night here, barely alive. He died not five minutes… hang on, who are you?”  
John’s eyes clicked up from the body to find the man staring at him in question.  
“He’s with me.” Sherlock answered quickly.  
“He’s with you?” the man replied, raising his eyebrows.  
“Oh, for God’s sake, yes, he is. Don’t look so surprised, we’re sharing a flat.”  
“John Watson,” John supplied, shaking his gloved hand.  
“Inspector Lestrade. Are you seriously living with him?”  
“Well, it’s been about five minutes so far, but yes.”  
“And you’re aware of who… what he is?”  
“… I think so…”  
“I do hate to interrupt the introductions,” Sherlock intervened coldly, giving both men a glare. “But I have a case to solve.”  
Lestrade gave him a look, but continued, “He died five minutes after he found him, nothing we could do. By that time, the killer was gone.”  
Sherlock didn’t appear to respond, but simply walked closer to the body, his startlingly brilliant eyes deducing every square inch of it.  
“Mid-thirties, a bachelor, lived in a nice flat though, expensive, his money paid for it… meaning he had a career that earned him money quickly, and lots of it.”  
“What sort of thing, then?” Lestrade asked.  
“…illegal.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
Sherlock whipped around. “I need to see his house.”  
“Sherlock, I can’t just-,” Lestrade began, but Sherlock cut him off.  
“You can, if you want it solved.”  
Lestrade looked like he wanted to strangle the detective, but took his anger out of Anderson, with a quick, “Get it done!”  
The dark haired officer scowled, but walked out past John and Sherlock.  
“Lunatic,” he muttered while walking by.  
“Anderson, I’m not a lunatic, I’m just more intelligent than your tiny little brain could ever stand to comprehend.” Sherlock replied in that flat, cold tone.  
Anderson just sneered and trudged off.  
John watched him leave with distaste. Sherlock, a lunatic? No, no… if he was to try to insult the tall, lanky detective, he’d use something a little stronger than that. But, quite honestly, after only having known the man for a short moment, it thoroughly irritated him to see Sherlock insulted. He just seemed so… detached, that John felt as though he had to be Sherlock’s emotions. A ridiculous notion, of course, but he felt it all the same. Perhaps it was because Sherlock seemed so utterly awkward and cold around people. He seemed to use it as a shield, almost, and John had to wonder…  
Had the git ever even had a real friend?  
“So, is there anything else you can tell me?” Lestrade finally said.  
“I need to look through his house first.” Sherlock replied, clearly irritated himself at having to wait.  
“I’ll come by when Anderson gets us access,” Lestrade answered. “But, until then-,”  
“Find out all you can on him,” Sherlock interrupted, pointing at Mr. Wilder. “History, family, past careers, any information is useful to me.”  
“Right,” the inspector nodded. “I’ll get on that.”  
Sherlock just gave him a cold glance before he turned, brushing past John and gesturing him to follow.  
“I… I don’t get it, why would someone just stab him Holmes? He seems a perfectly normal bloke.” John commented.  
“Then you see, Watson, but you do not observe.” Sherlock answered.  
“What?”  
“Andrew Wilder, a mild-mannered man in his mid-thirties, living alone in a dump of a flat in the East End. And yet, something is off…”  
“What’s that?”  
“His clothes. Shoes, in particular.”  
“What about them?”  
“They were fancy; very fancy, expensive, no doubt. It just isn’t right. Why would an unemployed man with no partner and a bad home dress like that, and how did he afford it?”  
“You mentioned something about his job. Fast money?”  
Sherlock nodded, the cogs in his head whirling. “It would have to pay very, very well, and be intermitted. Something easy.”  
“Yes, and… wait, so why did you say ‘illegal’ back there?”  
“A possibility.”  
“What, that his career is in illegal activities? Holmes, that’s a major accusation-,”  
Sherlock cut in sharply. “Once you get rid of the impossible, no matter what remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”  
John cried, “But really, Holmes, how can you be sure he’s illegal?”  
“All the evidence I need is in that flat.” Sherlock said in return, looking icy and deep in his mind. “I just need whatever it is he took…”  
“What he took?”  
“Think about it, Watson. The only possibility for a man like that is to have a career transporting illegal goods, a very profitable business now. Plus, all of his clothes are from the same store, meaning it was likely someone higher in the chain that bought him them, so that he could appear wealthier before clients. Now, why would someone possibly kill him if he was doing such a fine job? Simple; he must have stolen something of value.” Sherlock deduced matter-o’-factly, like anyone could have figured it out.  
John just stared at him. “Brilliant.”  
Sherlock kind of blinked at John.  
John scratched his head. “Too much?”  
“No, no…” Sherlock answered, the mask returning, but if anything, slightly warmer when he looked at John. “No, it’s quite fine.”  
And, looking completely separate directions, they each shared a tiny little grin. Perhaps alone wasn’t so great; maybe together could be better.


	4. Chapter 4

Andrew Wilder’s Flat, East End, London

“So… what, exactly, are we looking for?” John asked, absently leafing through some papers on Mr. Wilder’s desk.  
“A pin, a necklace… likely jewelry, from the Orient. Something of value, something that his employer would kill over.” Sherlock replied, eyes reefing through the flat as he tore away at things.  
“Take it easy, Sherlock,” Lestrade hissed. “His sister wants to keep the flat in order.”  
“Why would she want to do that? It’s only her dead brother’s belongings.” Sherlock scoffed.  
The other two stopped. They exchanged a glace. Sherlock seemed to sense he’d said something wrong.  
“Not good?” he asked John.  
“No, not very good, Holmes.” John told him, irritated. The damn man thought himself some kind of detached, cold essence above and different from everyone else. Like a psychopath, but… not. Sherlock was different. He was a whole other classification.  
The detective scowled, but at least saved his other side comments about Wilder’s sister for the walls of 221B.  
But still, his frustration seeped into his every movement. He’d been a nightmare since they left the crime scene yesterday afternoon, resigning to pacing the flat and attempting to deduce the flat before he got there. Shockingly, though, John thought, Sherlock had almost entirely mapped out the home before they even got there, predicting where things would be based on Wilder’s appearance.  
He may have been half-mad, but John would be damned to say he wasn’t a good detective.  
“Where is it?!” Sherlock muttered angrily, digging through Wilder’s things. “It has to be here somewhere, so where is it?!”  
“What?” John offered, hoping his questions would push the man to deduce, as he’d found they sometimes did.  
“The thing, Watson! The item of value! It has to be here, somewhere, and I can’t find it!”  
“For God’s sake, Holmes, don’t tear the man’s things apart, we’ll find it.”  
“I’ll find it, if you all be quiet for a moment and let. Me. Think.”  
John suppressed a growl. This was how Sherlock was. One moment John was helping, the next he was only hindering. He was like a child… No, he may have looked eighteen, but he was a bloody five-year-old girl!  
“Inspector!” Anderson’s nasal voice carried him up the stairs and into the house. He gave John ad Sherlock a sneer. “Oh, what are they still doing here?”  
“Be. Quiet. And go. Away.” Sherlock snapped, only partially in the real world. The majority of him was still in the depths of his mind, as Sherlock had explained to John, “It is the only place I can think. Really think.”  
“Oh, that’s rich, considering I got you I here.”  
“Oh, please, Anderson, a child could do your job.”  
“Why don’t you try? You’re a kid enough.”  
“Mm, no, don’t think so. I think my brain would melt, as yours clearly has.”  
“Why, you stuffed up-,”  
“ALL RIGHT, gentlemen, that’s quite enough of that.” John interrupted violently, the soldier in him standing tall and defiant.  
The officer and the detective both clammed up.  
“Mr. Anderson, why are you here?” Lestrade asked.  
“We’ve found another body, sir.” Anderson answered, a sly smile on his lips at Sherlock.  
Sherlock remained stony while Anderson relayed the details. John moved over to him.  
“D’you think it’s related, Holmes?” he asked the detective quietly.  
Sherlock furrowed his brow, running over the possibilities. “There’s a chance.”  
“Are you coming?” Lestrade asked back over his shoulder.  
Sherlock gave him a quick glare, but John nodded for them, and the pair set off after the Inspector and his dog.

“It doesn’t make sense!” Sherlock growled, gripping his hands in his hair.  
“What? What?!” John persisted.   
“The body; a woman, early twenties, just married, happily settled into her new life. She’s rich, good inheritance, a good husband, steady income… Watson, it doesn’t make sense. She is in no way connected to Andrew Wilder, and definitely not connected to his boss, so why was she murdered?”  
“Maybe it’s completely unrelated? Just another case?”  
“No, no, no, no, Watson, look, see? It’s the same style as Wilder’s killing. Same blade, same murderer, everything is the SAME and it doesn’t make any SENSE.”  
John watched Sherlock march off, hands deep in his hair and his eyes riveted shut, deep inside his head. John glanced down at the body, the disfigured woman at his feet. Carefully, he knelt by her, examining her wounds. Sherlock was right, down to a T. Everything was the exact same, there was no denying that the same person killed her as Wilder. But… why? Why was the question. And who. Who did it, and why? The doctor ran his hands through his hair. If Sherlock didn’t get his head wrapped around this, and fast, who knew what could happen.  
Sherlock snarled again. “I need more data. More information!”  
“Well, what? What do you need?!” John cried, rising to his feet, at his wit’s end with the detective’s nonsense.  
“Data, information, I need to know.”  
“Know what?!”  
“Everything!!”  
“You already bloody do, as far as I can see.”  
“Well, that’s not very far, is it?”  
“Holmes, for bloody God’s sake, two people are dead. What. Do. You. Want. To. Solve. This?”  
“Anderson to leave.”  
“Be serious, this is a murder scene.”  
“I am utterly serious! Will you stop stating the obvious? It’s dreadfully boring of you.”  
“Look, the woman’s dead, Wilder’s dead, and they seem so far apart. If only we’d found the bloody whatever-it-was you were looking for, maybe we’d be in better shape…”  
The light-bulb went off.  
“That’s it.” Sherlock said.  
John stared as a grin spread over the dark-haired man’s face.  
“Oh, that’s brilliant!” he cried.   
“What is?” John asked, now considerably confused.  
“What you just said, John, oh stupid, stupid me, how could I not see it? It’s so obvious, I-,”  
“WHAT?”  
“It’s a distraction, John, a distraction to lead us off from Wilder and his killer!”  
John blinked. “That makes… a lot of sense.”  
“Oh, John, you may not yourself be an illuminator, but you certainly are a guide of light in others.”  
“Watch it, Sherlock.” John warned, but he found himself giddy as a schoolboy inside. Had he really helped it solving some of the riddle? And, wait a tick, had he just called Sherlock… Sherlock? And had Sherlock called him John?  
Hm. He supposed so.  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock strode up to the Inspector. “We need to get back to Wilder’s place.”  
“What? Why?”  
“This; the woman, it’s a distraction, only, she was killed to lead us off track.”  
“…bloody god…”  
“We need to go back immediately, and find the valuable.”  
“Valuable?” Lestrade raised a brow.  
“Yes, an item of value. Goodness, have you anything in your head at all?”  
“Sherlock.” John warned.  
“Yes, yes… If we find the valuable, we find the killer.”  
“And, do you have any idea what this item of value would be?”  
“Something from the Orient. Something someone would smuggle.”  
“Like jewelry,” John offered. “Jade, things like that.”  
The Inspector nodded. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”  
“Try not to muck this up, Inspector.” Sherlock said flatly, heading for the door.   
“And you try not to do anything insane.”  
“Oh, please, if I was sane, how could I possibly understand the mentally unstable?” Sherlock scoffed in return.   
“Just don’t be daft.” Lestrade answered with a roll of his eyes, and watched Sherlock and his new companion leave. A companion. With Sherlock. He wasn’t sure whether he should jump for joy at having someone to look after the idiot of a detective, or cry for the poor doctor at having to live with the eccentric. But, surprisingly, John seemed, if anything, rather enthralled. He and Sherlock just seemed to… fit. Like two pieces of a puzzle, or two parts of a whole. Even now, Lestrade could see it; the cold barren, brilliant genius and his sentimental man-of-action. He nearly laughed at how awkward it sounded and they were, but in truth, it was a good sight to see.  
Sherlock just rolled his eyes back, as if he could read the Inspector’s thoughts. Sometimes it really did seem he could.  
“Come along, John, much to do.” He said, easily slipping into the first-name basis.  
“Yes, yes…” John muttered, and with a farewell nod to Lestrade, he trailed after Sherlock out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

221B Baker Street, London

Sherlock sat back in his armchair, eyes closed, fingers in a steeple beneath his chin like a prayer, deep in the darkness of his mind.  
Still like this? John thought. He questioned if the detective had gotten any sleep at all since returning from Wilder’s house yesterday evening. Now, the sun was just lighting the dark somber skies, full of rain and a dreary air.  
“So… anything, as of yet?” John asked, sitting in his armchair opposite Sherlock.   
“Andrew died in the dead of night for stealing an item of value.” Sherlock said, as if John hadn’t spoken at all. “We couldn’t find it in his house, meaning he either stole it, or it was found. Then, mid-day, a seemingly innocent woman is killed to draw us off course… A distraction, no doubt.”  
“And you figured in that time someone may have returned to Mr. Wilder’s flat and done… something?”  
“It’s the only thing that makes sense, John, but nothing had happened. Everything was exactly as it had been.”  
“So… what does that mean?”  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he snarled, “I don’t know.”  
“All right…” John began carefully. “Well, what else could have happened in that time?”  
“Anything, John, that’s the problem! Someone could have transported it, or taken it, or given it back, anything could’ve happened…” Sherlock dug his hands into his hair, hunching over.  
“But why would someone want the necklace anyways?”  
“Oh, come now, John, even you could…” his voice trailed off, and realization dawned over his face. “My God, John, that’s it.”  
“What? What’s ‘it’?”  
“Why would someone want it, John? Because it’s an artifact! Oh, stupid, of course! They killed the woman so someone could get the necklace from where Wilder hid it, and take it back to the museum with him...and now they’re looking for him…  
“How do you figure?”  
“Obvious; after the woman was killed, someone DID go into Wilder’s flat, but he knew exactly where to find what he was looking for; because the item was hidden with Wilder’s sister, and she’s perfectly fine! Oh, how did I not see it before?” Sherlock looked giddy as a schoolgirl.  
“Hang on a moment, how do you know Wilder’s sister had it?” John asked, the excitement infecting him.  
“Don’t you remember? She didn’t want us digging through his things. She did that to try and not be suspicious, because then we would guess she had something to do with it.”  
“So, what, the woman was killed and in that time someone came to get the item from her?”  
“Precisely.”  
“Who has it now, then?”  
Sherlock pulled on his coat and headed for the door with a grin. “Darian Jones.”   
“Who?”  
“An old friend of Wilder’s- the one Wilder entrusted to get the artifact once he was dead and return it to the museum.”  
“What?! Wait, where are you going?”  
“To see Mr. Jones. We must find him before the smugglers do…” Sherlock said, and held out John’s worn brown coat. “Coming?”  
John grumbled, but followed his flat mate out the door.

“Mr. Jones, could I have a word?”  
The man they’d been following turned around at the sound of Sherlock calling his name.  
“Yes, can I help you?” Mr. Jones replied.  
“I should hope so.” Sherlock said, approaching him. “I’d like to know when you’ll be returning that necklace to the museum.”  
Mr. Jones stiffened. “How-how do you know about-,”  
“You’re a friend of Mr. Wilder’s, are you not? And a curator at the museum. Don’t worry; we’re not the police, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. John Watson. We’re just bringing justice to Andrew’s killers.”  
Mr. Jones deflated a bit, and after a moment of thought, came out with the truth, “Mr. Wilder looked frantic. I saw him only a few hours before his death. He was in such a state, and when I asked him what was the matter, he told me, “They’re after me, Jones, I need your help.’”  
“Did he mention who ‘they’ were?” John asked.  
Jones shook his head. “No, he only told me to go see his sister and get it back for him before ‘they’ got to it first. I assume he meant the Pearls, but I can’t be sure.”  
“’The Pearls’?” Sherlock interrupted.  
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes, they’re a rather fierce band of smugglers unfortunately, the museum has had quite a few… dealings, with them, but in this case, the group was planning, as Wilder told me, to take the necklace out of the country and sell it for profit. He knew it was priceless, so he took it. He also mentioned they were after him for it… I can only assume he’s…”  
“Oh, yes, he’s quite dea-,” Sherlock began before receiving a sharp elbow from John.  
“Ow, what?” he snapped at the smaller man.  
John’s eyebrows shot up.  
“Oh, right.” Sherlock grumbled, turning back to Jones. “Yes, we’re very sorry; your friend is no longer with us.”  
Jones looked a little puzzled by the exchange, but blinked it off and went on, “I was intending to return the necklace as soon as things quieted down.”  
“Good.” Sherlock said, and before Mr. Jones could say a word more, the detective turned and swept off down the street.  
“Ehm… thank you for your time, sorry about your chap.” John offered, and gave Jones’ hand a firm shake before turning and jogging after his friend, despite his leg’s slight protest.  
“So?” he said, once he caught up. “We know who has the necklace, where to now?”  
“Now,” Sherlock told him, with a gleam in his eyes. “We have a murderer to find.”  
And he suddenly stopped.  
“Please sir, can you spare some change?” a boy just younger than them asked for his spot on the ground.  
“Only if you’ll get me something good with it.” Sherlock replied flatly, and flung a coin at the boy.  
“What’ll it be?” the boy asked, catching the money with a devilish smirk.  
“The Pearls,” Sherlock told him, voice low. “Tell me what you see, and hear.”  
“Yes, sir, have a very nice day.” The boy answered, and Sherlock continued walking like nothing happened.  
“Um… what was that?” John asked.  
“What was what.” Sherlock retorted, feigning interest.  
“Oh, come on, Sherlock, you know very well what.”   
“A very useful tool.”  
“What?”  
“A band, John, they’re a band of street urchins and homeless people. No one pays them any mind; except for me. It’s very useful. People pay no mind to what they say in front of those on the streets, and so they hear and see a good deal. My eyes and ears all over the city, they are. Very good for gathering data and finding whereabouts of people and such.”  
“So, what, give little homeless children money…” John began.   
“And they give me information. Yes.”  
“Right. Where to now, then?”  
“We have a moment before the band gets back to me… hungry?”  
John replied an instant, “Very.”  
Sherlock nodded, and throwing his hands into his pockets, he turned abruptly onto the next street, and led John through the crowds to walk into a quaint little diner.  
“Ah, Mr. Holmes!” the owner, a stout man with too much mustache cried.  
“Afternoon, Mr. Keith.” Sherlock replied, giving the man a nod. “Just stopping in for a quick tea.”  
“Of course, of course, Mr. Holmes, sit anywhere you like! It’s on the house today, as per usual.”  
Sherlock gave a slight indication of hearing, but beyond that just turned and gracefully sat at a two-person table.  
John sat across, for a moment twiddling his thumbs while Sherlock looked absently out the window. They both ordered tea, and John got some food, but then resumed staring their separate directions until John came up with, “I take you have no spouse, then?”  
Sherlock gave him a wary glance before looking back out onto the street. “No, why do you ask?”  
“No, no, um… no reason. I was just wondering, that’s all.”  
“…and you have no one to associate with either.”  
“No, I expect you deduced that.”  
“Obviously, but I do wonder what happened to your brother.”  
“Sorry, what?”  
“Your sibling; you aren’t an only child, that’s clear enough by your tolerance level and other manners, but that person is no longer involved in your life; something you regret and feel guilty about. I would say they’ve died, but you seem angrier than anything, so they’ve obviously run off.”  
John looked a little stunned, but still amazed and baffled by his companion’s deductions. “…yes. Yes Harry ran off a few years ago.”  
“Yes, and your parents are no help what-so-ever so you’ve been left to deal with him on your own, which is why you left for the military.”  
“I suppose so, yeah.”  
“Mm.” Sherlock said, nodding slowly. Then, he glanced at John’s expression, which, strangely, he found unreadable. Clearing his throat, he asked the doctor quietly, “Did I get it right?”  
John looked startled. “What?”  
“My deductions; did I get it right?”  
“Well, everything from earlier, yes,” John said, meaning Bart’s, but then his expression turned almost mischievous, with a saddened sort of feeling to it. “But there is one thing…”  
“Oh?”  
“My parents. They are no help, but that’s because they’re dead.”  
“…ah.”  
Sherlock looked at John.  
John looked at Sherlock.  
“You never married after that.” Sherlock said finally.  
“No, I left for the army.”  
“But you intend to.”  
“Not sure,” John admitted. “I thought, once, that I would, but with my damned leg and everything, I’m not sure how everything’s going to go.”  
He paused, before going on, “Will you ever marry? Settle down, you know?”  
Sherlock scoffed. “How tedious.”  
“What’s that to mean?”  
“Marriage, children, settling down… it’s all be terribly boring. Besides, I have no need for a female, nor friends, so what do I need marriage for?”  
John stared at him. “What do you mean you don’t need friends?”  
“John, I’ve been alone without companions my entire life. I work alone.”  
“Really? Than what am I?”  
“A doctor.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“You’re my flat mate, obviously. What more do you need?”  
John tried to get angry, but found himself stopping short. DID he need anything more? At the moment, just being near Sherlock and the thrill of the chase was more than he could ever ask for… so instead of snapping at the unfriendly detective, he just said, “Nothing. Not from you, anyways.”  
Sherlock eyed John carefully. “Good.”  
A moment of silence passed before Sherlock said, “Yes, I have a brother.”  
John nearly dropped his tea into his lap. How could Sherlock read his mind so bloody well?  
“Bloody hell, Sherlock, how do you do that…” he muttered.  
“What?” Sherlock replied, looking onto him with question in his green-silver eyes.   
“Nothing,” John sighed. “Um, you have a brother?”   
“Unfortunately.”  
John started to say something, but came to a halt as Sherlock suddenly got to his feet.  
“Time to go, John, things to do.” His eyes never left the street, and when a puzzled John looked to where he was looking to see the cause of their abrupt departure, he saw that the detective was looking at the homeless boy from earlier.  
“That quickly?” John muttered, paying for his meal and both the teas before running after Sherlock into the rain.  
“As I said, John, it’s a very efficient system.”  
They crossed the street between buggies and met the young man.  
“Did you get your tea, good sir?” Sherlock asked.  
“I did; it was lovely. Thank you for your time.” The man answered, and handed Sherlock a small piece of paper.  
Sherlock took the piece and handed the boy another coin. “Save it for a rainy day,” he said, as if means of farewell, and continued down the street.  
“What in god’s name was all that rubbish?” John question quizzically.  
“Code,” Sherlock replied lowly. “We can’t risk exposing ourselves, so there’s a coded language all the band uses to communicate.”  
“Al right… so, that meant?”  
Sherlock held up the piece of paper. “As per usual, they’ve prevailed. There’s a spot on the Thames the Pearls as using as means of headquarters. Come along.”  
“Hold on a tick, you’re not actually trying to say that we’re going to-,”  
“If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss them!” Sherlock snapped, picking up pace.  
John let out a fast exhale through his nose, pursing his lips, but after a moment of muttering, “Bloody git…” he chased after the detective down the busy road.

The Embankment, London

‘Here’ Sherlock mouthed, pointing with a leather gloved hand to his left at a big, beaten-up door.  
John nodded. The plan was simple; find the door, burst in, and in just a few moments the message would be delivered to Lestrade and the police would come to their rescue, capturing the Pearls red-handed.  
The edged towards the door silently. Even the slightest noise would travel through the old building’s walls, exposing them completely. In order for this to work, Sherlock had told him firmly, We need to catch them off guard. They can’t know we’re here until the last possible moment!  
And so, here they were, nearly knee-deep in a puddle from the pouring rain, drenched to the bone, they crept around the outside of the once-abandoned building towards the door.  
There was a rustle from behind them, but before John could even turn, and quieter than Sherlock could hear, there was a swift thunk on the back of John’s head, and everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

His eyes snapped open.  
“Ugh… God…” he muttered, one hand going to the back of his head while he used the other to help him sit up. He blinked his eyes closed and held them tight with a little groan. Hell ,what had happened? His head felt like it was full of old rags, with a dull throbbing near the back. If he’d been out drinking again, so help him, he was going to…  
No.   
Not drinking.  
He’d been hit.  
Images slammed back into him as he remembered. The abandoned house. The door. Sherlock. The plan. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. He sat up abruptly. Still at the old house by the Thames, but the detective was gone, and the door they’d been heading for was open.  
Damn it! He thought. The bloody idiot was gone. But where to, where to? How was he supposed to find him, he wasn’t the detective here, he was just along for the ride!  
“All right, Watson, pull it together now…” he muttered at himself, and with a bit of a wince at his leg, he stood up.  
Come, he’d been with Sherlock for a while now, he’d seen him work. Deduce. Right. The tracks… his and Sherlock’s leading up to where they’d stopped, and then a mess of footprints led out of the door and through the mud, indicating a struggle. Good, this was good. And from there, a group of footprints led around the outside of the building… one them, he recognized; a long, narrow dress shoe that could only belong to the lanky detective. The others looked bigger, but he couldn’t tell much more.  
Sherlock could perfectly describe them off their boot prints, John thought with a grudging smile, and he hobbled off around the building.

“So, now. Mr. Holmes. Why don’t you just tell me where to find that necklace?” the man before Sherlock said in a slippery tone.   
“So, it was you after all, ‘Mr. Jones’,” Sherlock said with a mocking tone. “Or, shall I say, Graham Dekker?”  
The man smiled again, but it wasn’t a nice one. “So glad you’re just as smart as they say, Mr. Holmes, you haven’t missed anything!”  
“You pretended to be Wilder’s friend, the ‘museum curator’ just so that you could get that necklace. You had him killed, and then tried to claim your prize after that terrible distraction.”  
“I figured it would drive you around in circles for a while; guess I underestimated you.” Graham Dekker said. “But, then again, you did fall right into my trap.”  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.   
“So, Mr. Holmes,” Dekker continued, “Why don’t you tell me where that necklace is so I can kill you quickly?”  
“You, the infamous leader of the Pearls, killing someone quick and painlessly?” Sherlock asked in that mock awed voice.  
Dekker grinned evilly. “I never said it would be painless, Mr. Holmes, but that is your reward for telling me.”  
“And the alternative?”  
“Well, if you unwisely choose to not tell me, I plan to make you beg for mercy.”  
“I don’t beg.”  
“Oh, but you will.”  
Sherlock stared straight ahead at him, unfazed, but meanwhile his brain was set whirring into motion. How to get out, how to get out, how to get out… he was just thinking of a solution when Dekker approached him swiftly, taking out a pistol and aiming it at his forehead, “Time is ticking, Mr. Holmes.”  
A plan came into mind, a stupid one, which would likely see him dead anyway, but the killer caught, when there was an ear-splitting BANG and Dekker screamed out, dropping his weapon with a clatter.  
Sherlock seized it, kneeling by the dying gang leader and pulling his head roughly up.  
“Who took it?!” he demanded.  
Dekker moaned.  
Sherlock shook him, sending the man into screaming protest as if jarred his bullet wound. “Who took the necklace?! WHO?!”  
But Dekker just screamed until his eyes rolled back and his muscles slumped down.  
Angrily, Sherlock tossed him down onto the ground. But this action exposed his back, where a perfect bullet wound lay in the exact spot of his heart. Sherlock glanced up. Who could have shot him…?  
But as he went to call out, a voice yelled, “Sherlock!” and he turned to see Lestrade, coat tails flapping in the wind as he ran down to him.  
“Bloody god, are you okay?” the inspector asked.  
“Hm? Oh me? Yes, I’m fine…” Sherlock said, only half paying attention. “Oh, and here’s the killer.”  
Lestrade looked down. “Sherlock, he’s dead.”  
“Clearly.”  
“… all right, then. And his accomplices?”  
“Around here somewhere, now if you don’t mind, I’m going home.”  
“Wait, hang on, Sherlock, I need-,”  
“Oh, come off it, Lestrade, I’ve just caught you a criminal and a murderer!”  
“You KILLED him, Sherlock!”  
“Oh, don’t be daft, I didn’t kill him, I merely helped it happen.”  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade protested, but eventually just sighed and said, “Well, can you at least tell me who it was that killed him, before you go?”  
Sherlock studied the wound. “Easy; not a tall man, the wound’s straight on, very steady handed, I’d say, military experience, and it had to someone who…”  
His voice trailed off as it dawned on him.  
“…yes?” Lestrade urged him to continue.  
“…no, no, sorry, that’s completely wrong, all of it, don’t listen to me.”  
“Beg your pardon?!”  
“It’s uh… the thing. I have to go.”  
“But… Sherlock!”  
“Good day, Lestrade, let me know when the next thing comes up.”  
“Fine. You know what? Just fine.” The inspector yelled, shaking his head.  
Sherlock ignored that last remark, and headed up the hill to be greeted by none other than John.  
“Hello, heard what happened, you all right?” John asked, that caring look in his eyes.  
“Oh, yes fine, no thanks to you.”  
John stilled a bit. “What… what do you mean?”   
“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just… good shot, John.”  
John looked a little frightened, but as soon as he saw that hint of a smile on Sherlock’s face, he relaxed. “Well, couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I? And that damn moron really hammered my head… hurts like a bastard.”  
The two of them chuckled, not really because any of it was funny, but just as more of a ‘Look at us, two nobodies who killed a global criminal, giggling like schoolgirls at a crime scene’ manner.  
And it was in this way that they walked shoulder-to-shoulder back home.

“So… there never really was a Mr. Jones.” John said, sitting across from Sherlock in his armchair.  
“No,” Sherlock replied. “Mr. Jones was a character created by Dekker to trick Wilder into giving him the necklace.”  
“So, this entire time…?”  
“I only realized who Jones was when we went and saw him.”  
“And… you didn’t say anything?” John asked, a hint of irritation in his purse-lipped tone.  
“Please, John, don’t take offense to something so trivial.” Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t say anything but there wasn’t the evidence to support it. I couldn’t make an accusation without knowing for certain he was behind it. But, there is still one loose end…”  
“What’s that?”  
“The necklace.” Sherlock growled. “Dekker didn’t have it, and I couldn’t find it on him.”  
“Well,” John replied, raising his eyebrows and digging around in his pocket. “Lucky for you, I can disarm a man.”  
“What?”  
“Lucky for you, I found something else when I got that guard’s gun.”  
And he pulled out the beautiful jade necklace.  
Sherlock stared.  
He blinked.  
He slowly reached out and took the necklace from John’s hands.  
“…good.” He said at last. “Very, very good.”  
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the great Sherlock Holmes was complimenting me.” John said with a slight smirk.  
“Good thing you know better.” Sherlock replied, but his face twitched into a rare smile that lit his normally cold eyes and lifted his high cheekbones. And right then, with that ridiculous mop of black curls, he looked his age.  
“Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson chirped, coming through the door with a tray set full of tea things. “I’ve brought you boys some tea.”  
“Oh, thank you.” John said for them, giving her a smile and a nod to set down the tray on the table.  
“Oh, and take down the laundry, while you’re here.” Sherlock said, not paying her any mind, just studying the necklace.  
“Not your maid.” Mrs. Hudson warned with a disapproving look, but she put the basket on her hip anyway. “You two having fun?”  
“Dunno if I’d call it fun…” John muttered.  
“It’s the work, Mrs. Hudson, nothing more, now do go have your evening tea.” Sherlock stated.  
Mrs. Hudson, seeing they were quite content to themselves, left without closing the door.  
Neither John nor Sherlock seemed to notice. Sherlock seemed intent on studying the necklace. John bent to take up a worn looking leather bound notebook and a pen, opening the notebook a page and setting in to write.  
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.  
“Thought I’d… you know, keep track of the cases. Write them down.”  
“Why?”  
“I dunno. They’re interesting. For when I’m old?”  
Sherlock made a shrug-like gesture, and settled into the comforting sound of the low burning fire and John’s pen scratching over the paper.  
“The Jade Man…” John muttered.  
“What?”  
“I’m giving them names; the cases. This one’s ‘The Jade Man’.” John paused. “…do you like it?”  
Sherlock sighed. “They’re for your entertainment, call them whatever you want.”  
John cocked an eyebrow, but laughed a bit at the detective.  
“Are you going to keep it?” he asked.  
“Mm?” Sherlock’s eyes were closed now, his hands in that prayer pose in front of his face with the necklace still clutched between them.  
“Are you going to keep the necklace, or are you going to return it.”  
Sherlock exhaled slowly, before going on in a low, tired voice, “Perhaps you can woo some women with it.”  
John pursed his lips, before he saw the grin tugging at Sherlock’s lips.   
“Twat.” He said.  
“Oh, shut up.”


	7. Chapter 7

December 24, 1890  
221B Baker Street, London

“John.”  
The flat echoed silence back at him.  
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. John didn’t ignore him for no reason, and he couldn’t recall having gotten into a row with the doctor any time previous.  
“John?”  
Still, nothing. He opened one eye. Oh, blast it all, John’s funny brown coat was gone.  
“Ugh. MRS. HUDSON!”  
Footsteps. The landlady appeared at the door. “What’s the matter, love?”  
“Where is John.”  
“He’s gone out Christmas shopping, dear, I thought you knew.”  
“How could I possibly know that?”  
“Well, he did tell you.”  
“Well why has he gone now?”  
“It is his last chance to, Sherlock, it’s Christmas Eve.”  
“I’m aware.” Sherlock replied hotly. “When is he coming back?”  
“Oh, I don’t know, dear. Why? Do you miss him already?” she said the last part with a funny little smile.  
“Mrs. Hudson, he’s been gone less than a day, how could I possibly miss him? Besides, he’s gone enough already with that ‘job’ of his.” He answered with a scoff and a vague dismissive gesture of his hand.  
“Oh, cheer up, love, he’s only got the job so he can stay here with us.”  
Sherlock scoffed, but inside, he felt a funny feeling that he never felt, because he had trained himself not to feel. But now, all at once, with John around, he felt. For John only. And now, knowing that John was staying for good, he… felt. Emotions. Happiness. Sentiment.  
Of course, he’d never tell John that.  
“Fine. Pass me the book.”  
“The what?”  
Sherlock gestured vaguely at the table, where John’s casebook lay. “The book.”  
Mrs. Hudson looked at him in question, but went and got the book o hand to Sherlock where he lay on the couch.  
It had grown considerably since that first case so many months ago, so now almost the whole thing was full of John’s surprisingly neat doctor’s script, weaving words into pictures of their cases together.  
Sherlock read it often, when John wasn’t there, complaining about some parts where John expressed his irritation, and smiling at other’s when John talked about his admiration at Sherlock’s deductions and brilliance.  
Mrs. Hudson just smiled at Sherlock and left him, absorbed in John’s latest case titled, “A Weasel in the Yard’; a gripping tale of their latest case, wherein a member of the force at Scotland Yard had been the cause of a series of murders.  
Sherlock didn’t really notice her go.

A few hours saw John storming into Baker Street with an arm full of parcels.  
He headed up the seventeen steps to 221B, the sound of Sherlock’s voice echoing from the flat.  
“You could have given notice.” He was irritated, clearly, by his tone.  
“Had I given notice, you would have declined me.” John paused on the steps. That was new. He’d never heard that voice before. And yet, it was so… familiar, in a way. A man’s, still silky and poetic like Sherlock’s, but lighter, carrying only hints of the detective’s low baritone and much more formal.  
“Precisely the point.” Sherlock over enunciated the phrase, but he seemed generally familiar with the other strange voice.  
Here goes, John thought, and he opened the door to the flat.  
Sherlock looked up, seeming to feign interest, but John could see the relief in his eyes.  
“Ah, John. You didn’t get too angry with the store clerk, did you?”  
“How did you… oh, never mind.” John grumbled.  
“Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” The owner of the new voice said, standing.  
He was tall; taller than John, but not quite as looming as Sherlock. The voice suited him as well, with his pale complexion lifted in what appeared to be a smile, and the dark swatch of hair over his light eyes, twinkling with intelligence. The sharp suit and waistcoat gave him the air of authority John had heard in his voice.  
“Do I know you?” John asked, furrowing his brows and setting aside his parcels.  
“Not yet; though I’m afraid you’re quite well acquainted with my worse half.” The man said, shaking John’s hand with that same, almost creepy smile.  
“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock hissed.  
“You know him?” John asked, pointing to the man quizzically.  
“Of course I know him.” Sherlock grumbled, like it was obvious. “He’s my brother.”  
Realization hit John like a slap in the face.  
His made a small ‘o’ shape.  
“…tea?” he offered, eager to change the subject.  
“That would be most excellent.” Mycroft Holmes said, returning to his seat in John’s chair across from Sherlock.  
John made a quick up-and-back to his room to drop off the parcels before heading into the kitchen, half listening to the Holmes’ conversation.  
“You could visit, you know.” Mycroft was saying.  
“Uh… no.”  
“Mummy would like it.”  
“Oh please, Mycroft, you were always Mummy’s favourite. She doesn’t need me there.”  
“Sherlock, I’m quite serious, it’s Christmas, for god’s sake, you could at least visit your family.”  
“I thought you were always saying I should get out with friends more.” Sherlock replied mockingly.  
“We were twelve then, Sherlock, things are different.”  
“How so? You’re the favourite, with a good steady way to becoming the government, and I’m sitting here having fun with my violin.”  
“Oh, grow up.”  
“Please, not now.” John groused, placing the tea down on the table. He gave a brief glance back and forth between Sherlock and his elder brother, as if floundering for what to do.  
Fine.  
He sat down on the couch.  
He didn’t like it, but he did it anyway.  
“It’s Christmas, Sherlock.” Mycroft repeated. “Perhaps you should think about what matters most to you.”  
And with that, he stood and headed for the door.  
“Perhaps you should get your head out of your biscuits and tea and look about, Mycroft.” Sherlock replied with a flat look. “Do give my regards to Mummy, will you?”  
Mycroft momentarily narrowed his eyes, but it passed, and he wished John a good day before heading out the door.  
“What was that?”  
Sherlock glanced up at John. “What was what.”  
“That- your brother. Why don’t you just go and see your family?”   
Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh. “Tedious. Why would I have need for small talk with the people who made my childhood miserably drab?”  
“Because they’re your family, Sherlock, and it’s Christmas!” John cried in frustration.  
“GUH, John, I’ve been told its Christmas four times today. I’m. Aware.” Sherlock responded. “I just don’t see what all the fuss is about.”  
“What all the fuss is about? Oh, god, Sherlock, just…” John tried his absolute best not to yell, so his words came out in a strangled sort of way. “Christmas is the time when you’re supposed to be with your family, your friends, the people you care about most. You can’t just detach yourself from it like you do everything else!”  
“Why not? I’ve done it my whole life already.”  
“Because it’s not all right! You’re pushing people away!”  
“Well maybe, that’s what I’m aiming for.”  
Silence.  
Then Sherlock went on, his voice still low, barely more than a growl, and a fire in his eyes. “I don’t need love, or family, or friends. And if you’re so keen on me being with my family, why don’t you go be with your drunken brother, hm?” and the detective flicking his house robe over his hip and curled to face away from John.  
John looked at him.  
Then he looked away.  
He pursed his lips, grinding his fingers together, before he decided that if he didn’t do something, he was going to scream.  
So, running up into his room and back again, he threw on his jacket.  
Sherlock popped open an eye. “Where are you going?  
“Out. Away.” John replied with barely concealed rage, and he slammed the door behind him.  
The front door had barely slammed shut in the same manner when Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.   
“You two at it again?” she sighed.  
Sherlock sprung off his chair and stepped gracefully to the window, watching John walk out across the street and into the darkening night.  
“He’ll be back.” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anything.  
“Oh, but Sherlock, that’s not the point, love.”  
He turned around, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Then what is the point?”  
She sighed, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “Sherlock, if you want to keep your friends, you have to let them know that you care.”  
“Of course John knows.” Sherlock sneered. “I bring him around on cases, I split rent with him, I eat and sleep when he tells me to… most cases, I make sure he doesn’t get any bad relationships-,”  
“Dear, you’ve ruined every relationship John’s tried to have with a woman!”  
“Same thing.” Sherlock answered, waving her off.  
She pursed her lips. “All I’m saying is, that you can’t keep pushing him away… otherwise, he may just give in.”  
Sherlock just looked back at her blankly.  
Mrs. Hudson sighed. She had only known him as long as he had taken residence at Baker Street, and a bit previous, but even with that, and her knowledge of his background, she felt like his mother. Sherlock was cold, and unkind, and distant, but John had changed that. Well, no, not really… Sherlock was just as emotionless and barren as before, except to John. And it seemed as though John was just as full of emotion, and as much the same person, but they just seemed to… fit, together. They could read each other, and they understood each other, and the teased and argued and got along like a domestic couple.  
She chuckled to herself. Listen to her, babbling on like a romantic, about Sherlock Holmes, no less.  
And so, she gave the awkward, lanky detective a small smile before she turned and headed out the door.   
Sherlock stood in the same spot, staring at the ground. Then he realized what it was he was staring at.  
Slowly, he stooped down and picked up a small red parcel off the ground, labeled, in John’s neat script, ‘Sherlock’.  
He sat down with the parcel on his lap, and, with ginger, violin calloused fingers, he unwrapped the package.  
Inside wrapped in white puffy paper and secured with a pretty red bow, lay a beautiful wood tobacco pipe, engraved with the initials, ‘SH’.   
Sherlock blinked at it.  
John had gotten him a Christmas present.  
…no one bought him Christmas presents.  
But John did.  
It took him all of three seconds to decide what to do.

John walked quickly, his leg protesting heavily, and his jaw set.  
He stopped.  
He looked up at the sky.   
He started to walk back to Baker Street. He stopped again, cursing himself and Sherlock and Christmas and the cold and pretty much anything else that came to mind at the time.   
And so, he lit a cigarette and headed into Regent’s Park.  
Bundling his coat about himself, he sat on the coattails of his jacket and inhaled the smoke deeply. Damn Sherlock, he’d resisted cigarettes in the army because of the cost, and now the damn detective had him smoking like a chimney.  
He sighed. This was ridiculous. It was Christmas Eve, and here he was, sitting alone in a park, because he’d had a row with Sherlock. They’d argued before certainly, but this had been different. Usually the battles were pointless, about some random, meaningless topic, and they would settle back into routine quickly. But this… this had gone deeper. It had dipped into their pasts; something neither of them wanted to discuss.  
No, this was pointless. He shook his head, and was just about to get up and head back home, when-  
“Thought you said you didn’t smoke.”  
John stopped short as the detective walked up the path to stand next to him.  
He pulled the cigarette between his fingers and exhaled slowly, pursing his lips.  
“Why are you here?”  
Sherlock looked dead into his eyes. “You did tell me I should be spending the holiday with the people I care about.”  
“Yeah. I did.”  
“Well, here I am, considering I don’t have any friends.”  
John exhaled through his nose, agitation rolling through him in waves. He almost stood up. He almost turned and stormed out of Sherlock’s presence. He almost threw his smoke, still ablaze, at Sherlock’s feet.   
But the detective caught him half in his seat and half not when he said, “I only have one.”  
John slowly got to his feet.  
He looked his friend in the eye.  
“I take it you like the pipe, then?”


	8. Chapter 8

December 11, 1892  
St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London

“Miss Hooper, do be a dear and clean up, will you?” Sherlock said, throwing his coat over his shoulders.  
The woman glanced up from her work nervously, and nodded. “Oh…certainly, Mr. Holmes. Of course.”  
“Excellent,” he muttered back, and strolled out with a long gait towards the outside world.  
Perhaps it was his height, or his eyes, or even his intelligence…but whatever it was about Sherlock, Molly Hooper was plaintively, desperately in love with it. Maybe not the man himself, with his arrogance, and his unkindness, and his John Watson, but something about Sherlock had her coming back like a puppy, no matter how hard he kicked her.  
But of course Sherlock knew this. It was unfortunate, and John often scolded him for it, but often the detective used Miss Hooper’s undying passion for him to his advantage. He was well aware she would do nigh anything for him. That included access to the mortuary, spare body parts, and clean-up duty when he was running late.  
Currently, he was about three hours over-time.  
The trip back from St. Bart’s was always tedious; if he couldn’t catch a coach, it wasn’t an incredible distance, but the amount of idiots milling about the sidewalk was staggering. Added onto this, the snow made the idiots even slower, which drove Sherlock up the wall.  
“Move.” He muttered at one particularly happy looking couple. John would’ve usually apologized for him for that, and then smacked him around for being such a twat. But at the moment John was at home, likely tapping his feet impatiently and staring at the fireplace, whilst occasionally swearing at Sherlock’s lack of punctuality.  
But the instant Sherlock saw 221B’s front door, he knew this was not the case.   
The knocker was on the wrong side.  
For one reason or another, the three of them living within 221 always kept the knocker at a 45° angle to the right of its pedestal. Whenever Mycroft came by, he straightened it, which was quickly undone by whoever came in next. But right then, the knocker was about an inch off to the left of its stand. Sherlock touched the doorknob. Cold. So, he thought, whoever came in last was a stranger, and they came in a while ago, and no one’s left since.  
Cautiously, he opened the door.  
Up the seventeen steps, he heard a voice from the flat. It was deep and booming, like John’s when he went into ‘army-mode’, except more official, and Sherlock knew it would never change from this loud tone. But Sherlock only caught the tail-end of it, which was, “…later this evening.”  
“Yes, sir.” That was John’s voice, and the sound of it was so alien Sherlock could hardly believe it belonged to his friend.   
By the time he reached the door, though, the conversation was over, and the people in the room were all getting to their feet. Sherlock’s heart nearly stopped.  
There was John, of course, standing before the fireplace, and Mrs. Hudson stood in the kitchen. But facing them were three men, all in army dregs with official-looking faces and combat boots. They had paper-work with them, and all wore expressions blanker than stone. John, on the other hand, looked as though he was about to faint and be sick at the same time. His eyes were shadowed and wide, and his bad leg shook slightly; a remnant of his injury. Mrs. Hudson had her hands over her mouth, and tears brimming in her eyes.  
Sherlock tensed when the army men turned to face him, but they did nothing more than march straight off past him down the staircase. But the final man in line, the leader, it seemed, said, “You’ve five minutes, Watson.”  
John swallowed. The leader left. Then Sherlock finally said, “You can’t.”  
“I don’t have a choice,” John said, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. “I’m cleared for medical again, and there’s a war going to be going on.”  
“But your leg-,”  
“Is fine.”  
“Well, I could fix that…”  
“Sherlock.”   
“It would only take me twenty seconds with a chair…”  
“Sherlock.” John said, but he no longer sounded afraid; just defeated. “I haven’t got a choice.”  
Sherlock stared at John, the mask of indifference coating his cold features, and only a slight twitch of his lip showing emotion beneath. John looked at his battered old shoes, lips pursed, and even paler than the detective.  
Sherlock was the first to speak. “All right, then.”  
“Sherlock…” Mrs. Hudson whispered, a tear tracing down her cheek.  
“No, no, Mrs. Hudson.” He continued, sneering. “John has to go and play hero.”  
And he stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled and the front door swayed on its hinges.  
“Oh, John.” Mrs. Hudson whimpered, and she surged forward, wrapping her frail arms around his hunched shoulders and burying her face in his shirt.  
John held her back, swallowing down tears and clearing his throat. His hands quivered.  
“He doesn’t mean that, you know he doesn’t.” she said, rubbing his back as if he were a sick child.  
“I know.” John replied, and he did. Sherlock wasn’t any good at dealing with people, or feelings. He’d gotten better, but obviously this was quite a bit too much. John knew this well, and forgave the detective even though it burned…but he still glanced over at the closed bedroom door with pain in his dark blue eyes.  
Finally, Mrs. Hudson let go, with tears in her kind eyes and a sad smile tracing her lips. “Hurry back.”  
John put his hand on her shoulder, returning the shaky smile and only nodding. “I will.”  
Wiping the tears from her eyes with her apron, she fled from 221B with quick feet.

The night sky made the windows reflect the flat when Sherlock walked out of his room.   
It was utterly silent.  
No fire burned in the hearth, and although the books and the experiments and all of the clutter were still present, something was missing. There was an empty spot on the desk amongst papers and books and newspaper clippings were John’s casebook usually sat. Now only a rectangle of clean desk stared back into Sherlock’s tired eyes. John’s coat was gone, and so were his shoes. The only remaining life in the flat was Mrs. Hudson, looking dismally at the floor from the couch.  
Without a word, Sherlock sat in his armchair, staring blankly at the chair across from him that still had an imprint of John on it. Silence rung about the flat in a way it never had before. It usually only occurred in the midst of a case, or when John was at work, when Sherlock was deep in thought on the couch. But even then, Mrs. Hudson was bustling about, Sherlock’s mind was whizzing, and John came back sooner or later and would flick and rustle with the paper while drinking tea. Usually by then a conversation would start, or Lestrade would come in, or SOMETHING would happen…but not now. Now, the only noise was the ringing sound of true silence.   
It was Mrs. Hudson who broke it. “Left about an hour ago.” She said.  
Sherlock drew in a breath through his nose and pressed his fingers together in front of his mouth, a hard, straight line.  
She went on, “You could have at least said good bye, Sherlock.”  
“I don’t need him.” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than Mrs. Hudson. “I never needed anyone before, and I don’t now.”  
“You might want to think that over.” Mrs. Hudson whispered, her eyes misty.   
Sherlock stared at John’s chair, too deep in his mind to hear her. He didn’t need anyone. He’d never had any friends before John. He didn’t even know if John was his friend. But he didn’t need that. Friends, companions, people in general were a burden. He was better off working alone. Besides, John was a military man. He was bound to go back to war, and Sherlock had known that from the moment he met him…Sherlock had completely expected that, and had absolutely no problem with John doing his civil service. John was just doing what he had to, and Sherlock didn’t care, anyway. John was just his flat mate, after all. They only solved crimes together.   
He squished his eyes shut and curled over on the couch; it was too much for his brain to keep looking at John’s empty chair. He didn’t hear Mrs. Hudson leave.


	9. Chapter 9

January 5, 1894  
221B Baker Street, London

The night sky was thick and dark with rain clouds when the knock came.  
Mrs. Hudson nearly jumped out of her skin, managing to spill a great amount of tea on her slippers. “Drat.” She muttered. She was about to grab a cloth and wipe it up when the knock sounded again, louder and faster than before.  
“I’m coming, dear, I’m coming.” She cried, abandoning the soaking wet slippers and hurrying across the cold floor to the front door.   
It nearly knocked her over in a sudden blast of wind and spit of rain, had the person on the other side of the door not caught it in time in his gloved hand. She let out an undignified squeal when the seeming stranger surged into the house, before he abruptly removed his hood.  
“Pardon my manners, Mrs. Hudson.” Inspector Lestrade said, removing his dripping coat and gloves.  
“Oh, Inspector, you gave me a fright! Strange folk out this time of night…oh, but I’m sure you already know that, what with your line of work.”  
“Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade said, and he looked her straight on, his eyes brimming with a whirl-wind of emotions. “I need Sherlock.”  
“Oh, Inspector, I’m afraid he’s off again…” she replied, twisting her hands around and no longer meeting his eyes. “He’s was doing fine for a while, with that serial killer on the loose, but he’s back at it again.”  
“Mrs. Hudson, you don’t understand.” Lestrade cut in, gripping her shoulder quite fiercely.  
Her eyes widened a little as he leaned in, quietly muttering something in her ear.   
Her eyebrows shot into her hair, hand over her mouth. She shot up the stairs and said, “Hurry.”  
Lestrade wasted not a second before following.  
“Sherlock, love?” Mrs. Hudson asked 221B’s door, but didn’t bother knocking. Sherlock never answered, even on good days.  
Nothing was heard.  
She glanced back at Lestrade, who gave a confident nod, before gingerly opening the door and cautiously walking into the flat.  
The first thing that hit her was the stench. It was a nauseating mixture of dirty laundry Sherlock refused to wash, rotten food and experiments, and the bitter-sweet smell of a substance far more vile. The ground was littered with papers and books, clothing and shoes, and plenty of cigarette butts. It was actually quite shocking the whole house hadn’t burnt to the ground yet.  
Things got worse. Mrs. Hudson audibly sighed when she saw the bullet holes in the walls, newspaper clippings of murders, wars and everything in between, and the mess of junk coating the sofa. Ever since John had gone off, Sherlock had been acting like a hurricane, destroying all in his path. The flat hadn’t seen the light of day in months, and Sherlock only left for cases. He barely ate. Virtually never slept. He had taken to locking the door; something completely unheard of when John was around, as the door to 221B was almost always wide open for clients and Mrs. Hudson to enter at will. Mycroft had even begun visiting more often in the last few months before John’s departure, and was actually getting along with his younger brother. But now…now the only person who came to visit was Lestrade, and he only came to give Sherlock cases and try to dispose of any dangerous substances. No matter how much he tried, though, Sherlock always got more. He was slowly spiraling down into nothing, and Mrs. Hudson felt a guilt like nothing she’d ever felt before because of it. How could she let him, the boy who was virtually her own son, do this to himself? But every time Lestrade came by, he sat with her, and said the same thing; “This is his stupid way of dealing with things. There’s nothing you can do.” And she knew it, too. But still…it was hard to stand knowing Sherlock was up there all alone, slowly destroying himself and thinking nothing of it.   
But sometimes there were good days. A few times Sherlock actually came and saw her, and they sat, drinking tea and eating his favourite biscuits while he ranted about cases and the stupid members of Scotland Yard, and how everyone was such an idiot and why couldn’t people just think? And she would laugh and tell him he was going to solve this case no problem. Those were good days. When the light returned to his eyes and he put on a suit and his long frock coat and bathed. But those were getting fewer and farther between. And today was no exception to that rule.  
Sherlock partially sat, partially laid on his armchair, dressed in only his bathrobe, looking as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks, his eyes closed and an unnerving, frenzied smile on his lips.   
“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, taking a step toward the detective.  
Sherlock stirred, picking up his head a bit and opened his glassy, bloodshot eyes.  
“You.” He said, the smile fading, for the most part.  
“Yes, it’s me, it’s Lestrade.” The Inspector sighed. He’d dealt with this too many times in the past year, and he felt a little anguished at being so familiar with this version of Sherlock. This wasn’t the Sherlock he knew. This wasn’t the man he had met so many years ago, just a child with a smart-mouth and a genius mind. This was a shell of that man, and, for all of his rudeness, insults, pain-in-the-arse behavior and sociopathic ways, Lestrade wanted nothing more than to have the old Sherlock back.   
“Listen.” The Inspector said, standing before Sherlock. “It’s time to clean up, got it? No more of…this. There’s someone who needs you.”  
Sherlock giggled, curling up on the chair like a little girl. “Did your wife leave you again?”  
Lestrade sighed. “I’m not the one who needs you, Sherlock. It’s an old friend of yours.”  
“I don’t have old friends.” He said, grinning. “I don’t have ANY friends!”  
“Yes, you do.” Lestrade replied softly. “Only one.”

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London

“Inspector, it’s nearly eleven o’clock!” the nurse protested, looking more like a disappointed mother than a desk lady.  
“I know, I know, but please, ma’am, it’s quite urgent.” Lestrade pleaded.  
She stared at him for a long time before sighing out through her nose and pointing down the hallway to her right. “Room 122.”  
“Thank you kindly.” Lestrade replied, looking mildly pleased with himself. Draping his coat over his arm, he gestured Sherlock to follow him and headed off down the corridor they’d been directed.  
The detective looked awful. He’d managed to dump a bucket of cold water onto his head before they came, which, although it had taken some of the grim out of his hair, had made the too-long mess even messier, so it now hung across his eyes, still bloodshot and glassy, but slightly clearer and more alert. He had also managed some decent clothing, a button-down with a tailored jacket and his coat over good trousers and actual shoes, but from a lack of eating, he had gone from lean to frail and his apparel hung loosely on him.  
They followed a few more signs, tracing about the hospital’s halls until the finally arrived at 122’s door.   
Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, grasping the doorknob in his gloved hand.  
“Ready?” he asked.  
“This isn’t the race track, just open the door.” Sherlock snapped back.  
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but had to hold back a grin. THAT was the Sherlock he knew.  
So without further word, he twisted the knob and swung open the old door.   
The room was low-lit with a few candles, and several beds lined the wall on either side. A nurse was milling about by the man in the back left corner, but on seeing Lestrade and Sherlock, she quickly vacated the room, taking a trolley out with her.  
The men were all young; soldiers, no doubt, who had returned injured, but alive all the same. One had bandages encircling his entire torso. Another was missing a leg. A fellow to their right looked perfectly fine, were it not for the hints of burnt skin beneath his clothes.   
“Sherlock.” Lestrade called softly.  
The detective swept around, taking in all details possible, until…  
There he was.  
Right before his eyes.  
Alive.  
John.  
For a moment, Sherlock could only stare. It hadn’t seemed possible…and there he was, clear as day. John. John was here. John had come back.  
But Sherlock winced. John looked like he’d been through hell and back, which likely wasn’t very far off. His skin was ghostly, giving him the frightening appearance of death since he was asleep. His breathing was shallow and pained, his brow glistening in a fevered sweat. His hair was long and matted, and coated in sweat. He’d just gotten over the typhoid, clearly contracted during his travels. On John’s abnormally frail left shoulder there was a surplus of gauze bandages…oh god. Sherlock’s gut twisted. John had been shot.   
Lestrade gave a low sigh, carefully placing his hand on John’s arm. “Hold on.”  
John remained deep in his fever-induced sleep, but his hand shifted ever so slightly, so it was just brushing Lestrade’s coat. It was, if anything, a sign of life, Lestrade thought.  
He glanced up at Sherlock. “What are you going to do, then?”  
The detective didn’t take his eyes of John, and took a moment to say, “The symptoms of withdraw will be effecting my body shortly…it should only take me a day or two to pass it all over, and I should be functioning. John, on the other hand…”  
Lestrade watched, nearly fascinated as Sherlock bloody Holmes was struck speechless. What was he supposed to say to this? Finding one of his closest friends dying in a hospital bed after a year without word was hard enough for Lestrade…imagining how Sherlock felt in this scenario was almost painful.   
But the detective drew in a breath and finished, “Likely considering John’s current state he won’t be exiting the hospital for several days, quite likely longer; thus giving me ample time to improve the quality of living within the flat.”  
Lestrade nodded. “Sounds a good plan.”  
Sherlock nodded brusquely, flicking up his coat collar again and tightening the cloth about himself. He stared down at John again, his dark brows furrowed and his hands shaking ever so slightly. Lestrade gave a sigh.  
“Let’s get you home, then. You’re no good to him, nor anyone else in this state.” he said.  
Sherlock didn’t utter a word to the Inspector. He just turned onto an unsuspecting nurse as she wandered in. He looked at her coldly. “Are you looking after him?”  
The woman nodded. “Yes, I’m Mr. Watson’s nurse, Mary Morstan.”  
“That’s Doctor Watson to you.” Sherlock snapped. “He has had typhoid fever and severe trauma to his left shoulder, that medication you’re giving him will do absolutely no good. I want him in this same spot and in much better condition by the time of my return.”  
Mary’s eyes bugged out, and she paused before saying, “I shall take that into consideration, Mr.…”  
“Holmes.” Sherlock supplied. “Consulting detective. Come on, then, Lestrade, let Ms. Morstan return to her ‘work’.”  
Mary blinked, and said, clearly very confused, “Thank you.”  
Lestrade gave an apologetic smile, dipping his hat. “My apologies for him, Miss. Have a pleasant evening.”  
Sherlock followed Lestrade out the door, but just before leaving, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper into Mary’s ear. “Don’t do anything stupid with my writer.”  
And as the two men swept out, although it was likely just a trick of the light, Mary swore she saw the hint of a grin materialize on Dr. Watson’s lips.


	10. Chapter 10

“Lestrade.”  
“No.”  
“Please, just-,”  
“No.”  
“Inspector, please.”  
“No.”  
“P-Please…”  
Lestrade grit his teeth, decidedly sitting on the opposite side of the room as Sherlock, who sprawled out on the couch, looking frail and trembling.  
“You’re doing splendidly, just hold on to it.” The Inspector answered.  
“But this is illogical, and delusional, I see no reason for it! Whose plan was this in the first place?!”  
Lestrade gave Sherlock a pointed look. “May I remind you that this entire endeavor is completely your fault, and I have nothing to do with it!”  
“Inspector, this is hardly a threat to me, now hand. It. Over.”  
Lestrade gave a deep sigh. Three days. It had only been three days of almost constant supervision over the detective and he was ready to strangle the man in his sleep. How on earth did John cope?  
But when he looked over, he could see it, deep in Sherlock’s eyes; fear. He had to get a grip on himself, for John’s sake. Because if Sherlock didn’t save John, as John had done for him on countless occasions, then who would?  
Lestrade exhaled through his nose, and lifted half out of his chair, digging around in his pockets until he produced a beautiful wooden tobacco pipe, engraved with Sherlock’s initials. He tossed it over.  
Sherlock snatched it out of the air, shoving a mitt full of tobacco into the pipe and striking a match, lighting it furiously and drawing a deep, deep breath from it.  
Almost instantly, Sherlock relaxed, slouching back into the sofa and puffing on the pipe.  
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but glanced over the pipe. “Where’d you get that from?”   
“It was a gift.” Sherlock replied, his eyes softly shut.  
Lestrade blinked. “From who?!”  
Sherlock scowled at the surprised note in Lestrade’s tone, although the Inspector was entirely right; he didn’t get presents. “John. For Christmas, four years ago.”  
Lestrade stared at him. Then…  
Laughter.  
Lestrade was laughing at him.  
Sherlock darted up, opening his eyes. “What?!”  
But the Inspector was too far gone. It was several minutes of Sherlock scowling and Lestrade tearing up, he was laughing so hard, before he could wipe the moisture from his eyes and look Sherlock in the face.  
“Never, ever let that man go.” Lestrade said, and he gave Sherlock a wide smile.  
Sherlock just snorted and turned away, sending the Inspector off again into fits of giggles.  
“Seems like you two are finally getting on.” Mrs. Hudson commented, strolling in.  
Sherlock grumbled something under his breath.  
“Well, someone’s finally heading in the right direction.” Lestrade replied, reduced just to smirking.  
She smiled warmly, clasping her hands before her apron. “Oh! Sherlock, I’d almost forgotten. Your brother called in about twenty minutes ago, asking if you’d be needing a hand getting John home.”  
Even at the mention of John’s name, the company of 221B all stiffened a bit. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were glossy.  
“I don’t need my brother’s help.” Sherlock answered sharply.  
“Don’t get all in a huff, now, he really did seem sincere.” The landlady told him, but sighed. “How about I get you a nice cuppa before you go?”  
Lestrade nodded. “Thank you.”  
Sherlock watched the window instead of her leaving. He puffed at his pipe, letting the smoke settle in his dark, unruly locks.  
“Mind that doesn’t get out of hand, now.” Lestrade said, gesturing to the pipe.  
“Don’t you have better things to do than play daddy?” Sherlock snapped, smoking even more profusely.  
“Don’t you have better things to do than be a child?”  
Sherlock looked at him, then. Really looked at him. Something in his face flickered, maybe the corner of his mouth. And he almost smiled.  
Then he remembered he was looking at Lestrade, and turned back to the window.  
“Twelve minutes, thirty-seven seconds.” Sherlock said, not talking to anyone in particular. Then Lestrade realized that, no, he was talking to someone. He was giving a countdown until 1 o’clock, when he was permitted to visit the hospital.  
He was talking to John.


	11. Chapter 11

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London

Mary’s eyes lit up when Sherlock and Lestrade came thundering down the hallway towards room 122.  
“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade.” She said politely.  
Lestrade gave a nod. “Ms. Morstan, it’s a pleasure.”  
Sherlock studied her intently; her pulled-back blond hair, her big, cloudy blue eyes and simplistic nature. Then she was efficiently tossed aside and Sherlock barreled into the room.  
It was lighter then, even through the wintery rain a cool grey light illuminated the white sheets and curtains within the room. It wasn’t warm, but all of the patients wore short sleeved gowns and sat under only thin sheets. Sherlock removed his scarf, and slowly shuffled over to the bed on his left where his only friend resided.  
John was lying down, the same as he had been three days ago. His eyes were closed, and although his brow was still moist with sweat, his breath was regular, and he was now only suffering from a normal fever instead of the horrific disease.  
“He’s doing much better.” Mary said, mostly to Lestrade. “He’s even woken up several times, and spoken…”  
“What’s he saying?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow at how her voice had trailed off.  
“Well…” Mary began. “First off, when he saw me, he was conscious and asked where he was. I told him, and he asked me what my name was, and thanked me for taking care of him and such…later that night he awoke in a sweat, calling out a name.”  
“What name?”  
Mary shuffled, awkwardly. “I’m not sure if I should say…”  
Lestrade nodded before Sherlock could get at her. “Completely understandable, Ms. Morstan. But, might I ask…does your shift end soon?”  
“Now, actually.”  
“Well, how about you and I take a stroll and give Mr. Holmes here some time to see to Dr. Watson.”  
Mary gave Sherlock a warm glance. “Yes. Yes I think that’s a wonderful idea.”  
Lestrade gratefully linked arms with Mary, and the duo strode out down the hall, leaving Sherlock alone at his post. The detective’s hands quivered in his pockets. He moved, nearly sitting down in the chair by John’s bed before jerking up again.  
No, no, no.  
This was a terrible idea. What was he thinking? John didn’t want him here; he was trying to get better. Besides, he had a MUCH more entertaining, beautiful nurse attending to him…he obviously had no need for a drugged up consulting detective. Sherlock scowled. No, the last thing John needed was more issues like him. He was a volatile chemical; one thing gone wrong made him highly toxic to all in his wake.  
Worrying his hands around the pipe in his pocket, Sherlock gripped his scarf, throwing it over his shoulder. He was just about to leave, when…  
“Sherlock?”  
The detective stopped dead in his tracks, frozen by the thin, rough voice behind him. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around.  
John was still lying there, in the same position, but his eyes had opened, although they were still hooded. His normally dark blue irises were flushed and glossy with the fever, the whites bloodshot, but they were focused on Sherlock intently. His mouth was a thin line, trembling slightly.  
Sherlock gingerly took the few steps back towards John, so he was right at the man’s side.  
“Afternoon.” He said haltingly. “I trust you ar-,”  
And suddenly John’s good arm was around his shoulders, their cheeks pressed together in a warm, much-needed embrace.  
“Oh, god, it really is you.” John muttered in a low, gravelly voice that barely sounded like him.   
“John, this is putting a lot of unnecessary pressure on your shoulder.”  
“Shut up.”  
“But John-,”  
“Sherlock.”  
The shaking, almost needy quality of John’s rough voice shut Sherlock up. He swallowed his protests then, and gave in, wrapping his arms around John in such a way that it wouldn’t compromise his wound.  
“A year.” John whispered.   
“One year, twenty-four days.” Sherlock replied.  
“Seventeen hours.” John said.  
Sherlock started.   
John snickered. “And you thought I didn’t pay attention.”  
Sherlock smiled. A real smile, and laughed a little. He gave John a final second of hug before releasing him and sitting back on the chair, removing his coat and scarf.  
John looked at him with bleary eyes, and furrowed his brow. “You look bloody awful.”  
“I could say the same to you.”  
“Let me see your arm.”  
Sherlock squirmed in his seat. He couldn’t let John see his arm, then he would figure it out, the doctor wasn’t an idiot! No, find a stall tactic, find a stall tactic…  
“Sherlock, your arm.”  
John gave him a stern look, a mix of the soldier and the doctor, but mostly the friend.  
Hesitantly, Sherlock rolled up his sleeve, placing his too-thin pale arm on the bed.  
John picked it up carefully, looking over the wrecked veins with hooded eyes. Sherlock’s hands shook, readying himself for the hurricane.  
But the only thing in John’s eyes was a deep, deep pain. “Sherlock…”  
The detective attempted a placid mask. “I required a stimulant. My brain can’t function without something to do.”  
“But, the cases…”  
“It’s more than that, John.”  
John’s voice caught. “Well, this wasn’t in the plan at all.”  
“It never is.”  
“What will we do, then?”  
Sherlock took in a deep breath, stealing himself against his emotions. It was ‘we’, now. It wasn’t just him anymore. Now it was we. Together. “I don’t know. I don’t.”  
John’s eyes were tired and glassy, but he looked strong still, stubborn as an ass, like always. “Well, we’ll have none of that, that’s for damn sure.”  
He slowly pulled Sherlock’s sleeve back down with his good arm. He looked up at the detective again. “Did you meet the nurse?”  
Sherlock stiffened. “Of course.”  
“Mary…lovely, isn’t she?”  
“For a female, I suppose.”  
“Yes, well, if you’d stop being so jealous, maybe it would be a little clearer to you.”  
Sherlock recoiled, a look of disgust on his face. “John, you of all people should know how entirely distanced from ‘feelings’ I am. I don’t get jealous.”  
“Sherlock, it’s completely understandable, but you really don’t have to feel that way.”  
“John.” He snapped. “I don’t. Get. Jealous.”  
“She’s a fine woman, true, and she does have the properties of a mate, so I see where you’re coming from.”  
“JOHN.”  
“But I currently have more than sufficient lodgings and company in 221B Baker Street, which I’ll never be able to return to if you don’t bugger off and eat something so I can get some sleep.”  
Sherlock scowled, but John saw right through it to the grin he was holding inside.   
The detective stood. “I’ll let you get your rest, then.”  
John didn’t reply. His eyes had already slid back shut, and his breathing leveled out.   
Sherlock sighed, looking over his friend one last time, until he noticed something; a rectangular shaped object underneath the sheet, about where John’s left hand was. Curiosity flickering in his eyes, Sherlock reached down with long, nervous pale fingers and lifted the sheet just enough to see the object.  
He blinked.  
The casebook.  
Battered and scarred, the leather bound book sat beneath John’s frighteningly frail hand, looking as if it had been to war and back; which it obviously had been. The pages were bent and yellowed, but nothing had damaged the neat script inside. John had taken the book with him. That’s where it had gone…but why? Why take a perfectly useless book of romanticized stories to a real, cruel war? And something else caught his eye, in the palm of John’s hand. With the touch of a butterfly, Sherlock turned over John’s rough calloused hands and unfurled his fingers. He started. It was the jade necklace, from that first case so many years ago. ‘The Jade Man’, John had called it. Sherlock had been repulsed by the over-dramatics of the story, although he never had told John he’d read it, or any of them for that matter.  
Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes deep and misty. He now figured it out; sentiment. Now he was in John’s place, standing over himself every time he’d done something reckless and ended up injured, poisoned, drugged, or otherwise. He saw the look of ‘Why did you do this to yourself?’ staring down at him while it appeared on his own face.   
So with a heavy heart, Sherlock slipped out of the room, heading into the city to do as John had asked him. And by the time of his return, the doctor had still not awoken.  
Sherlock resumed his place in the chair next to John, leaning forward and intently searching in the deeper recesses of his mind for anything he could use. A few randomized facts appeared around the typhoid and severe injuries, as well as traumatic stress disorders and things. And again and again, he poured over John’s face, trying desperately to figure out what exactly had happened to his friend.  
But just as he found the most likely solution, his chin fell to his chest, and he dove into a deep, heavy sleep.

Images swam through John’s vision, hot and heavy, compressing his chest until he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.  
There was Murray, his commanding officer, standing above him. “You’re safe now, Watson.”  
Try as he might, John couldn’t speak. The words formed in his mind, ‘Watch out!’ but they wouldn’t pass his lips.  
Murray smiled at him one last time before he suddenly stiffened and screamed, a crimson patch blossoming on his chest, and his eyes rolled back as spiders crawled out through his mouth, and he crumpled to the ground.  
John couldn’t make a sound, but all at once he was running, not quite fast enough, as an explosion was consuming the ground behind him. Fire erupted around him, searing his skin and burning his eyes to tears. And then someone was emerging forth from the shadows.  
“Shut up, SHUT UP!!” Carlton screamed. He pointed the gun at John.  
Now his voice came to him, but it sounded as if someone else were talking for him. “Carlton, it’s me, it’s John.”  
“You’re not him.” Carlton sobbed, tears streaming down his face. “You’re not him, you’re not! Stop lying to me!”  
“It’s me, I promise. Just put down the gun.”  
“No, no, no, NO!! STOP IT!!” He shrieked. And his finger pulled the trigger.  
“SHERLOCK!!”  
The pain was like getting shot all over again, and John bit back a scream as he jerked awake, flattening himself against the bed while his forehead burned with fever. His mind fogged up, making it difficult to see and even harder to think. He tried to blink away the mist, but it kept coming back even stronger. A dull ring took up in his ears, and he closed his eyes, moaning soft and haggardly.  
There was something on his forehead though, cool and crisp that brought him back. His blurry eyes opened, finding only small, gentle hands placing a cloth on his face.  
“Sherlock…” he muttered.  
“It’s me John, its Mary.” The voice registered in his hazy mind.  
“W-Where is he?”  
“He’s sleeping, John, he’ll be back very soon.”  
She made as if to walk away, but John dropped his hand onto hers. Her breathe caught. “Can I get you anything, John?”  
He swallowed. “You’re very beautiful.”  
She glanced at him, surprised. But when she caught sight of his face, she could only give a little smile. She understood that look. It was that of an apology for something he knew wasn’t his fault.  
“I wish you all the happiness in the world.” She told him softly.  
“You’ll find someone much more worthy than me.” John replied, and his eyes slid closed again.  
Mary sighed, carefully placing John’s hand back at his side. But as she turned, she glanced down at the slight weight in her hand. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock and astonishment. In her hand, the one previous held by John Watson, there was a gorgeous carved jade necklace on a thin chord of black string.  
She gave the sleeping man a warm gaze, and just before leaving, slid the necklace on so it fell just on her breastbone.  
She exited the room, looking rather peaceful, and nearly ran straight into Sherlock.  
“Oh, pardon me.” She said.  
“Pardoned.” Sherlock replied. “What of John?”  
“He’s still got a high fever, but I think it’ll go down very soon, and he should be all right to come with you in a few days’ time. He’s a rather tough one.”  
Sherlock nodded, but his eye caught on the necklace. “Where did you acquire such a pendant, Ms. Morstan?”  
Mary smiled. “A friend of yours, actually.”  
“Really.”  
“Oh yes, quite. He and I had a good talk just now, after he awoke in an unfortunate state.”  
Sherlock’s eyes darted to hers, searching for information. Mary just smiled. Sherlock blinked, looking absolutely bewildered.  
“Perhaps you should go see to him; he was asking for you.”  
Sherlock attempted to find a response, but came up with nothing before Mary was strolling off down the hall. He blinked at her again.  
Interesting.  
Very interesting indeed.  
And Sherlock turned away, entering room 122 with no qualms whatsoever about Mary having the pendant around her neck. After all, he had the real prize to be won.


	12. Chapter 12

September 11th, 1894  
221B Baker Street, London

CRASH.   
BANG.  
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.  
Fits of riotous laughter echoed about the flat as John and Sherlock careened over the fallen table, coat rack, and John’s overturned armchair. They tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs and dust giggling like two school girls.  
“You should’ve seen her face!” John howled, rolling onto his back.  
Sherlock did his best imitation of the shocked and mortified look Molly had just displayed, sending them both back into buckets of laughter.  
“Oh, dear god.” John laughed, slowly calming to just heaving breathing. He glanced over at Sherlock by his side. The detective’s breath smelled of port and wine, although his eyes were still alert and unfazed.  
“I can’t believe she’s marrying Gregory.”  
“Gregory?”  
“Lestrade, idiot.”  
“His name is Gregory?”  
John rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t fade. “I’m happy for him.”  
Sherlock snorted. “About time. His wife left him years ago.”  
“Mm.” John replied, closing his eyes.  
Sherlock kept looking at him though. “Will you?”  
“What?” John asked without opening his eyes.  
“Marry.”  
John smiled. “What if I did?”  
Sherlock snorted. “You’d have a hell of a time telling her about yourself.”  
John chuckled. Sherlock had a point; his past was long and complex, especially with the addition of the scar on his left shoulder, deep and not going anywhere. And, of course, how it got there. Sherlock had had a hell of a time coaxing the truth out of John; how it was Carlton, a good friend of his, that had gone mad during a battle and first shot John, then himself. Although, unlike John, Carlton hadn’t lived to tell the tale. He couldn’t imagine telling all that to anyone else. And frankly, he didn’t want to.  
“Well, I suppose…” Sherlock began. “If you chose such a path I would be nothing but happy for you and the person you chose to spend your life with.”  
John blinked open his dark blue eyes then, looking into Sherlock’s electrified green-silver ones with a soft kind of love. “I chose the person I wish to spend my life with a long time ago.”  
Sherlock’s lips twitched into a careless smile, and he moved microscopically closer to John, so that their shoulders were just touching.  
“Besides.” John said, his face lighting up with a devilish grin. “Where would you be without me?”  
“About 497 pages short of your romantic take on my life?”  
“You read the casebook!?”  
“Of course! I can’t have you scrawling my endeavors to the world without me knowing what you’re saying!”  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“Only an idiot leaves a thing like that out, John.”  
“I suppose you have an idiot of a friend then, don’t you?”  
“You know what I mean.”  
John raised an eyebrow in question, but laughed at him.  
Just then, a knock preceded by a clatter sliced through their moment.  
“What the bloody hell is all this?!” Lestrade cried.  
Sherlock sat up, suddenly intent. “Where?”  
“The Tower of London.” Lestrade said, shoving aside the fallen coat rack. “Someone’s been skewered on it.”  
“Who’s on?”  
“Anderson and Donovan.”  
“You know I don’t work with them.”  
“Oh, for god’s sakes, he’s SKEWERED on the bloody top f the bloody Tower of London!” Lestrade bellowed, throwing out his arms.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Then I want all the files, and neither of them within fifty feet of me.”  
“Fine.” Lestrade grumbled, and he stormed out.  
Sherlock beamed as soon as the Inspector was out of sight. “Oh, YES! Yes, john, the criminal class is finally stepping up!”  
“Well don’t look so happy about it, it’s considered rude to cheer when someone’s been killed.” John muttered, but grinned. A case. Oh, god, yes, a case. This should keep Sherlock occupied for a while. And then the next case would. And the next, and the next. And John would always be there, ready to catch Sherlock when he fell.  
The detective leapt to his feet, swinging his coat over his shoulders and absently adding the deerstalker hat he’d been given for Christmas. “Coming?”  
“Obviously.” John snorted. He pulled on his jacket, careful of his stiff shoulder. But something was nagging at the back of his mind. “Sherlock?”  
“What?”  
“What happens when you…I don’t know, when you retire? When you’re too old to keep up the chase?”  
Sherlock paused, looking thoughtful while he assembled his scarf around his neck. “I’ve always like bees…maybe I’ll be a beekeeper.”  
“In the country?”  
“I should think.” He looked at John, eyes sparkling. “I hope you’ll learn the craft as well, perhaps you can be my assistant.”  
John guffawed. “Assistant?!”  
“Maybe.”  
“Well, if I’m only the assistant, then I want a dog.”  
Sherlock recoiled. “A what?”  
“A dog, to keep me company while I med your stockings.” John teased, waltzing past Sherlock and out the door.  
“Why on earth would you want a dog?” Sherlock asked, still obviously repulsed.  
“Oh, come on, you used to have a dog.”  
“How would YOU know?”  
“Mycroft.”  
“Why that conniving little…”  
John looked thoughtful while he opened the door. “Maybe we could call him Toby.”  
“How about Hamish?” Sherlock supplied, mock innocent on his face.   
John stiffened. “Where did you…”  
“John ‘H.’ Watson. Hamish is your middle name, isn’t it?”  
“And just how do you know that?”  
“Mycroft.”  
John scowled. “Bastard.”  
“John, you give yourself no credit.” Sherlock said. “You knew.”  
John raised a brow. “You didn’t honestly think you could hide a puppy in your room without me noticing, did you?”  
“I had hoped.” Sherlock replied, seemingly aloof, but John elbowed him in the ribs.  
Sherlock hailed a cab, something only he could do quite as well as he did. But as he was getting in, John said, “You’ve already figured most of this case out, haven’t you?”  
Sherlock’s eyes glinted, the kind of look that was somewhere in between a maniac, a crazed scientist, and a mad genius. And Sherlock was, in a way, all three. “Once you eliminate the impossible, the only thing that remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”  
John sighed as Sherlock vanished into the cab. He was a mysterious man, Sherlock Holmes. No rhythm, sense or rhyme, nor an ounce of care for what was normal and what wasn’t. And all in all, this was what kept John at his side, and what kept Sherlock at John’s.  
The doctor gave a sigh, but when he shook his head, it was with a reckless grin.  
“The game is on.”


End file.
